


sure the keys change, but it's still the same song

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Newton Geiszler, Lesbian Hermann Gottlieb, reposted because i was an idiot and accidentally orphaned it :I, they're both transmasc your honour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27810433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Geiszlersuggests study of the kaiju. He writes elegantly, and yet exuberantly; he pushes the limits of reason and rationality.Geiszler makes Hermann's world explode back into colour when his replies come; thick, bulky envelopes, stuffed with paper and trinkets, they weigh enough that they must cost a fortune in shipping. When he asks, the other's response is simply,Oh, I know a few guys.They become—friends, dare he say it.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, Past Hermann Gottlieb/Original Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	sure the keys change, but it's still the same song

**Author's Note:**

> i originally posted this a while ago but had it set to the anonymous collection, and then i accidentally orphaned it. i've been meaning to repost it for a while since the fic is really close to my heart but i just didn't get around to it until now. anyway transmasc newmann supremacy

She's nice, see, that's the thing; petite and loudspoken with a quick and easy smile, and Hermann doesn't expect it, because, well, he's not _expecting_ anything, really, has barely had a handful of crushes up to this point, aged twenty, and halfway through his doctorate; doesn't, honestly, have the time.

But—well; life happens.

Monique is charming, and she really _does_ seem to enjoy Hermann's company, and that is...well, it's _refreshing_ , honestly. And, better yet, the other is actually _interested_ in Hermann's work; takes her seriously, despite being almost two years older.

"Go out with me?" she asks, wide-eyed and honest, and Hermann, well—Hermann can't say _no_ ; really, can't say _yes_ fast enough; it feels like dream-sand that'll slip through his fingers if he refuses. "Oh, good," Monique says, with a relieved peal of laughter, when Hermann, grinning, agrees, "I was really nervous."

It's heaven, at first; Monique seems like the perfect partner, and she doesn't question Hermann's issues; nor does she protest when someone mistakes Hermann for her boyfriend, and she practically _dotes_ on Hermann—planning romantic dinners, and getting her surprises.

So when, late one night, she asks, "What was your name before?" Hermann is, understandably, taken aback; they're dining at her parents' house, at the _dinner table_ , and suddenly, all attention is on him, and shame heats beneath his collar.

"I— _what?_ " he chokes out, flustered and embarrassed in turn, anger boiling in his gut.

"Oh, relax," Monique says, with a laugh, "it's no big deal, Hermann."

 _It is to me,_ he doesn't scream; instead, just sinks down in his chair; waits as the stilted silence finally lifts and the chatter begins again.

He doesn't speak for the rest of the time they're there; appetite lost, he prods at the food on his plate.

Later, as they drive home, Hermann asks, "Why'd you say that?"

"Sorry," Monique says, "should I not have? Is it—like, your deadname or something?"

Hermann swallows. "It's—fine," he says, "I just—wasn't expecting it."

"Sorry," Monique says again; slightly more genuine, and Hermann stares at the road, hard, shudders; ugly emotions rising in his stomach, he grips the inside of the car-door.

* * *

"Hermine," Monique calls, a few months later, from the other room, and Hermann freezes. 

"What—?" Hermann croaks, heart shuddering and plummeting. The other walks into the room; flashes her phone at Hermann.

"Hermine," she says, again, "Hermine Gottlieb. It's on your wiki page."

Hermann's throat tightens. "Monique," he says, "that's not—look, I changed it, _legally_ , okay, that's not my name anymore—"

"Hey, hey!" Monique interrupts, raising her hands defensively, "calm down! You don't need to yell at me, okay? I just—" she sighs, and guilt hits Hermann.

"Sorry," he murmurs, casting his gaze to the ground. "I—"

"Whatever," Monique cuts in. "Look, I need to go, okay? See you later?"

"Alright," Hermann says, but his heart sits heavy; the door slams shut after her.

His hands shake the rest of the day; he can barely concentrate enough to give the lecture, and when he gets back, he makes a beeline for the bathroom; stares, hands clenched, into the mirror at his reflection. Dark, short-cropped hair and an unattractively angular, sharp face stare back.

He spots the row of bottles and containers on the sink. Maybe...maybe the problem isn't Monique; maybe it's him; he's the one who's a freak playing dress-up; no wonder Monique's upset.

He drags in a shuddering breath; reaches for one of the containers. Hands clumsy, he uncaps it; the pale pink spreading across his lips, and suddenly, he remembers hours spent with his mother instructing him on this.

In no time at all, he's done; when he looks back, the face that greets him is a stranger's; face all made up, she looks feminine; correct.

He shudders.

Monique will be happy, though; that's the point, no matter how much he dislikes it.

When she gets back, she gives Hermann a once over, and then grins. "Babe!" she exclaims, "you look so nice!"

Hermann's heart gives a little flutter; he smiles, awkwardly. This is all he's wanted.

So it begins: Hermann gets off work before Monique, so when he gets home, he begins his routine; make-up is carefully applied with near-obsessive accuracy; then, the button-downs are exchanged for loose cardigans and tights, or a dress. Hermann hates wearing them, but he hates Monique's disappointment even more, so it's a necessary sacrifice.

But it makes Monique happy, and because of that, it's worth it; worth having to cut back on uni hours to stay home and prepare dinner, then, later, lunch; his hours become sporadic at best, but, well—that's what commitment means, and Hermann's willing to do his part.

It's all going fine, honestly; sure, Hermann's not very _happy_ , but that's not the point. They have romantic nights again, now; Monique smiles and laughs at his jokes, even if she's disinterested in his work, and perhaps a bit controlling; but Hermann understands; she's had a bad history in the past, with previous partners cheating on her; distrust is understandable.

So he smiles, and when she says, "Hermine," sweetly, he doesn't flinch.

* * *

It crashes to the ground, eventually.

The worst of it is that is _takes_ so long; four years, almost five, in total; Hermann under the illusion that everything is perfect—well.

At least, until he walks in on Monique in bed with a lover.

The man—it _is_ a man, and Hermann feels, in some ways, more shocked at _that_ ; had thought Monique, too, was a lesbian—doesn't even blink when Hermann opens the door, just gives a lazy grunt. Monique, too, doesn't react; stares Hermann down like a bull, until he slinks out of the room— _their_ room—closing the door behind him.

In the end, it leaves him like this: face tear-tracked and smeared with unwanted makeup, a rolling suitcase in one hand, and his cane in the other, standing on the front steps, waiting for a taxi-cab.

When he gets in, the driver doesn't even attempt to start a conversation; Hermann's inordinately grateful. He gets out at the uni—it's Sunday, and the campus is empty. He unlocks the door to his office; sets his bag down, closes the door; locks it; collapses into the chair with a shuddering sob.

After that, he drags himself up; pulls out his laptop and goes through his files; cancels any and all shared payments; deletes the bookmarked page of wedding rings.

Life begins again; monotonous, it manages—at least in the daylight hours—to numb the empty pain; the shock.

It does nothing at night; in the dark, he lays awake and thinks about it.

It's all just... _grey_.

* * *

_Dr. Newt Geiszler, PhDs_ does not taste grey. It doesn't look grey, either; in fact, the entire letter is inked in an eye-wateringly bright green, with glitter. Regardless, once he manages to get past that, it is _fascinating._

Kaiju have attacked twice; by now, no one is under the illusion that it was some one-off; rather, everyone holds their breath, bated and nervous, for the next attack.

 _Geiszler_ suggests study of the kaiju. He writes elegantly, and yet exuberantly; he pushes the limits of reason and rationality.

Geiszler makes Hermann's world explode back into colour when his replies come; thick, bulky envelopes, stuffed with paper and trinkets, they weigh enough that they must cost a fortune in shipping. When he asks, the other's response is simply, _Oh, I know a few guys_.

They become—friends, dare he say it.

So, naturally, when the opportunity comes, Hermann leaps at the chance to meet face-to-face; a conference on the kaiju problem in Stockholm the choice they go for; both will be attending anyway. Hermann can barely keep his excitement in check on the way there.

The conference itself isn't much to call home about; really, it's humanity desperately trying to explain what it can't yet understand; can't yet effectively combat.

Still; it barely affects him.

They meet up at one of the cafes just a short walk away from the building the conference is held in; this late in the day, there aren't many patrons; just a man sitting at the bar counter, sipping a coffee, and a woman sitting at the back, eyes glued to her laptop; student, Hermann guesses.

"Hey!" Geiszler says; his voice is high, and he wears an easy-going smile. His hair, longer than Hermann's, is wild and tousled. "Hermann!"

"Newton," Hermann greets, also smiling. "Newton!" he says, again, barely daring to believe it; because the truth is—well, it's just a _little_ hard to believe that he's talking to _Newton Geiszler_ face to face. "Shall we get a bite?"

"Uh, actually," Newton laughs, running a hand through his hair, "um, I actually ordered for us—I hope you don't mind. Black tea, right?"

"Er, no, not at all," Hermann says. _You needn't've_ , he doesn't say.

It goes well right up until it doesn't; Hermann's smiling, tentative, and—

"So, like, the thing is," Newton says, out of the blue, "identity is shit, you know?"

Hermann chokes on his drink; nearly. "Pardon?" he says.

"I mean, like," Newt raises his hands, "people always just—and then, you're like, woah! Slow down there! Can we take a moment and talk about it? So, like—"

"I have to go," Hermann manages, grip on his cane death-like; knocks over his cup as he rises. "Good-bye—"

"Woah!" Newton exclaims, standing, as well. "Hey, hang on, what's the—?"

" _Good-bye_ ," Hermann snarls, and storms out.

* * *

Cold, Hermann thinks; that's what it is. To have expected something, and to have it crushed beneath the steel-toed boot of reality; cruel. 

Cold, too; the Vladivostok shatterdome is drafty; the thick, wool-lining of his parka barely does anything for, and in the mornings, he spends a half hour massaging his leg before the stiffness is bearable, even with medications.

But—progress is being made.

They are no longer losing.

For now.

Geiszler has the gall to be upset at _him_ when they're forced together in Hong Kong; screams obscenities to the heavy beat of his electro-synth-pop-whatever-the-hell he plays because he knows it makes Hermann twitch.

Still, the pit in his chest aches; friendship is not easily replaced.

But...it does fade.

Slowly; in the way that an old wound does; never truly gone, but muted; shining through on occasion like a painful stabbing right between the fourth and fifth ribs.

(So:

The Drift.)

And he finds Newton writing on the floor.

It hits like a ton of bricks; knocks the wind out of his lungs.

* * *

"I'll go with you!" he yells; means it, too, despite all that's happened between them.

Newton turns to him. "Really?" he asks, "you'd—you'd do that for me? Or—or _with_ me?"

 _Apparently_ , Hermann thinks; then, to be fair, the world's ending as they speak.

They dive into the Drift.

* * *

Afterwards, in the neons; they lean onto each other, carefully; Hermann's mind is full of Newton's full of his; and, between them, it settles.

"I'm sorry," Newton says, quietly. "I didn't know."

"I thought you did," Hermann replies; just as soft; and they shouldn't be able to hear each other through the ruckus, but it seems like they're the only ones who exist. Hermann's not sure that they're even speaking, really. "That's why I was upset."

"I thought you were upset at _me_ — _because_ of me," Newton says. "I thought..."

"I know," Hermann assures. "I'm...I'm upset, still, honestly. But I—I understand." 

"We both kinda over-reacted, huh," Newt says, with a weak little laugh.

Hermann hums. His arms, over Newton's shoulder, slips slightly, and he readjusts his grip; both on the biologist and the cane. "You _were_ right, you know," he says, "that we needed to—to..."slow down and talk about it.""

"Yeah," Newt agrees. "Yeah, but, honestly, right now? I just want to sleep. If you don't mind."

"Of course not," Hermann says.

They fall beneath the covers; breath mingling in the small space of the bed, and Newt says, "I'm not—I get it, you know."

"I know," Hermann says; silence falls.

He's not in love, he knows that; but maybe he wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
